With her besom in her hand,
After having swept the floor –
O! she made a picture grand,
Framed within the open door.

Picture grand! – eyes never saw,
Hand of artist never drew
Aught so fair and free from flaw,
As the maid that met my view.

I have roamed in many climes,
Many oceans have I crossed,
Been in love some dozen times,
Seen of handsome girls a host.

Yet, she was the fairest fair,
Ever I set eyes upon;
Beautiful beyond compare –
Brighter than the noon day sun.

Did I love her? – are you wise
To put such a question, sir?
Sure I loved my very eyes –
‘Cause they loved to look at her.

What ? – describe her ? – deed I’ll not,
Shakespear, Dryden, Goldsmith,
Though they wrote and read a lot
Could not do it, I am sure.

Forty years from then have flown;
Now if her you’d like to see
There’s a cabin in Tyrone;
Where she dwells, my wife, with me.

We have children o’er the waves,
Some have settled in Tyrone;
Some are sleeping in their graves
Soon we’ll take the road they’ve gone.

Now I am an old, old man,
She’s an old, old woman now;
Her once rosy cheeks are wan,
Time and toil have marked her brow.

Still I love her as of yore –
Though she’s not as fresh and grand
As when standing in her door,
With her besom in her hand.